i can’t stop fantasizing about killing myself in front of you
curled up on the couch in our open plan living room
you’re across from me standing around the sink
jovially discussing the what you’re going to someday make,
the friends you love to hate,
and how the world just isn’t ready for you.
would you look towards me as i placed the gun between my lips?
oh how the gunshot would sound.
the bullet piercing through your words,
its noise reverberating off the walls.
would you fall quiet?
would you find speechlessness for the first time in your life?
i remember reading an account from a survivor of a school shooting who said how gunshots don’t sound like they do in movies.
how a gunshot is an axe cutting wood,
a strong crack.
I hope it would sound like that,
an axe bisecting my apartment.
would you turn your head to look at the blood splattered on the wall?
how red it would be on inoffensive slate walls.
i imagine some residual splatter hitting the lone painting that decorates said wall,
carmine meet ochre .
cats have this behavior where when they know they are dying
they venture out on their own,
seeking a hidden place to die alone and out of the way.
a death of convenience.
this joins the long list of reasons i am not a cat.
just stupid girl
who hopes that when she takes her life,
she take all the air out of the room with her.